


Three to Keep Watch

by Ericine



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/F, Female Friendship, Femslash, Flashbacks, Gen, Goodbyes, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 23:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13774764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ericine/pseuds/Ericine
Summary: “Identity confirmed: Paris, Afsaneh. Captain. Do you accept the last will and testament of Philippa Georgiou?”When all is said and done, Afsaneh decides that it's time to see Philippa one last time, and requests Michael and Katrina be there.





	Three to Keep Watch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Oparu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oparu/gifts), [phantomunmasked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomunmasked/gifts).



> Talk about a niche fic. Alright, so the whole internet ([cosmic_llin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_llin/pseuds/cosmic_llin) started it, I think?), it seems collectively decided that Commodore Paris, a character who got about three minutes of screentime in the AOS Trekverse, was in a relationship with Philippa Georgiou. And fandom has taken off with it in a way I've never seen, the point that I've lowkey forgotten that this isn't a canon relationship. Well, you'd probably give your lover some kind of last will message, wouldn't you?
> 
> This fic also assumes that Afsaneh, Katrina, and Philippa all went to Starfleet Academy at the same time and were friends since then.
> 
> Thanks to [phantomunmasked](http://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomunmasked/pseuds/phantomunmasked) who helped me headcanon which Farsi term of endearment Philippa used for Afsaneh, and [Oparu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Oparu/pseuds/Oparu) for accidentally triggering urges in me to write!

“It’s not like we’re going to have much time to look around,” Michael says patiently. “We’re going to be on assignment. I’m not even sure if we’re going to get that much time off the ship.”

“Okay,” says Sylvia, just as patiently. Then she appears to snap upright in the air. Michael stares. “But we could! We should plan just in case we could because I’m sure that nothing is going to give me the kind of perspective on Vulcan that  _ you could _ , Michael! And it must be so nice for you to be home! Don’t you consider it your home?”

“I--Admiral.” She and Sylvia snap to attention as Katrina Cornwell rounds the corner. She surprised, but in her voice, it sounds neutral enough.

In her friend’s it definitely doesn’t. “Wow, hi, Admiral, what a surprise to see you! We thought you were heading back, just like we’re supposed to leave tomorrow and--”

The admiral smiles, maybe a little friendlier than Michael thinks appropriate, but then again, she did just speak in front of the entire council. “I was actually looking for you, Burnham. A word?”

Michael can’t place the look on her face. It’s neither stern nor auspicious. There is a gravity though - and something else. Something positive but...sad? “Of course.” She nods to Sylvia.

“I’ll see you later,” her friend whispers.

Michael follows the admiral down the hallway.

“Is everything alright, Admiral?” As if it were another lifetime, Michael her time on the  _ Shenzhou _ . No wartime, no mirror universes, just exploration. And yet there always seemed to be something happening. They’d finish checking out one anomaly, and another one would appear. Would her life go back to that now? It wouldn’t feel the same, but could that become her life again, something after all of this?

“Nothing more life-threatening than has already happened,” Cornwell tells her with a grim smile. “But it _is_ something important.” She nods toward an empty room that is not her office. “Let me explain.”

* * *

“You know how long you were gone, Burnham.” Michael nods. “While you were gone, things here continued.”

This isn’t new information - seeing her parents would have driven that point home if she wasn’t feeling the brunt of the experience herself. Michael nods again.

“You can stop me at any point if this becomes too personal, as is your right, but it is my understanding that Philippa bequeathed you something in her will.”

Michael thinks of the telescope, one that sits...somewhere. Probably in Saru’s quarters.  _ Too personal _ doesn’t necessarily describe any of this.  _ Barely bearable _ is more like it.

It’s not that she can’t look Cornwell in the eye - she just doesn’t want to. “Yes.”

“There was someone else.”

Well, that was to be expected. Philippa was much loved and had a lot of friends. And yet she got the telescope.

Shame and regret don’t really describe where Michael is now, but the part of her that respected and loved Philippa Georgiou, that drove her to literally cross universes for her - that part is sore. “I see.”

Cornwell leans forward. “It’s Afsaneh Paris, Michael.” Michael’s heart does a small flip in her chest. “She’s here, and she hasn’t opened hers yet. She doesn’t want to do it alone, and she requested I be there. She knows you’re here, and when she found out that you don’t leave until tomorrow - she doesn’t want to trouble you any more than you already have been, Michael, but she wants you to be there too.”

* * *

**_Six years ago_ **

“The sunsets are just as nice as the sunrises,” Philippa tells Afsaneh pointedly, as they hike up the small hill to the east-facing beach. “That’s why we’re staying on the west-facing side. We don’t have to leave the house to watch anything like this, and we also don’t need to wake up early on vacation.”

Afsaneh laughs. “ _ Tsk, tsk _ , Philippa. Meanwhile, Michael over here has volunteered without us asking to carry all of our things up this hill. She also woke up without question and has put up with your complaints for the entire morning.”

Afsaneh looks at Michael, who shakes her head. She knows better than to get involved when they’re like this, and besides, she doesn’t want to. It’s pretty early, and it’s more effort than she likes to admit to keep this  _ sarong _ on when the things she’s carrying keep bumping into it.

The sunless sky is a dull pink when they reach the beach, lay out their blanket, and sit down on top of it.  _ No transporters on vacation _ had been Philippa’s rule from when they started going on these trips, and while Afsaneh always protested, Michael knew that it was only for the sake of tradition. This was more rewarding anyway.

Michael takes a meditation posture, eyes focused steadily on the horizon. She doesn’t like to miss details of things like this. Meanwhile, Philippa backs herself up between Afsaneh’s legs and lies back, with the twinge of dramatic that Michael has learned is characteristic of their relationship. “I hope you’re happy, Afsaneh.”

Afsaneh wraps her arms around her, leans down, and kisses her on the cheek. “Very.”

Michael continues to stare at the horizon, but the corners of her mouth turn up.

* * *

**_Present_ **

Michael swallows hard. “Is she angry?”

Cornwell shakes her head, and Michael knows that the answer here is  _ but she was _ . Who wouldn’t be? Afsaneh trusted her nearly as much as Philippa had. She had thought about facing her. She had been relieved on the prison transport that she hadn’t had to. And now - fresh from war, with a will left to read…

“She wouldn’t have asked for you if she was,” Cornwell says carefully.

“I’ll do it, of course,” Michael says. She wants to ask if she knows about Philippa’s mirror counterpart, but none of that is the point.

Cornwell nods. “She’s in my quarters.”

* * *

There are old stories from Earth that Michael reads, about people who can fly, who adhere to codes of honor and diligence, who move as much with their weapons as they do within their own bodies. Fighting that's like dancing, fairy tale-like.  


It is similar, she thinks, if one strips it down enough, to Klingon beliefs.

Some things are better in stories.

In these books, people fall on their knees when they have wronged someone, ask for mercy. Michael never understood this - such a pointless and insignificant way to make up for what has been lost. But she has dreamt about doing it in front of Afsaneh.

She’s spent months not remembering her dreams, blessedly. She’s been too tired. And now, when she walks into the room and sees Afsaneh sitting on Cornwell’s couch, she remembers the dream as vividly as if she’d just woken up from it.

Afsaneh stands, and even though she’s in uniform now, Michael remembers her on the beach. She never had trouble with her  _ sarong _ . She could move in it on a bike, running, carrying stacks and stacks of picnic materials when Philippa decided that she wanted to have a picnic on the beach with a few of the friends she’d made on their trip (she’d made friends with half the island).

Older than she was then, certainly. Sadder. No less graceful.

Michael is about to address her by her title, when Afsaneh steps forward and takes her hands within hers. 

“Michael, I cannot imagine what you have been through.”

Well, it’s true. And decidedly not warm. That’s to be expected. But there was no anger, Cornwell had said?

Michael doesn’t understand.

She doesn’t really have to, though.

She inclines her head downward and thinks of Ash Tyler, of all people. “Neither can I.”

Afsaneh lets go and turns to the crate that sits on the table. Cornwell lays one hand on her shoulder. “I got this soon after it happened. I knew--I suspected--that it would come. And I knew it would be the last time I see her,” she says quietly. “I wasn’t ready.” She nods to Cornwell. “I know that it was alright not to be ready, but I am ready now. To hold on any longer would be selfish.” Afsaneh inhales shakily, and Michael squeezes her own hands together in front of her. What can she do? Nothing. Except be here.

“You don’t  _ have _ to do anything,” Cornwell says gently, and in the back of her mind, Michael recalls that the admiral used to be a counselor before all of this.

“I  _ want _ to,” says Afsaneh, and Cornwell squeezes her shoulder, steps back. They’re standing behind Afsaneh now, and Afsaneh stands in front of the crate. “My oldest, he thought about being a reporter for a long time before he changed his mind and wanted to join Starfleet,” Afsaneh says without turning around. “I don’t care what he becomes, you know. I just want him to do what he loves. But I was curious, and so I asked him why, and do you know what he said? He said, ‘ _ Mâmân _ , I want to be a reporter because someone has to be the witness.’ And that’s a big thing for a little boy to say, you know? So I prompted you know, I asked him why he thought that was important, and he told me that people have to be witnesses so that people  _ know _ and so that people  _ know they are not alone _ .”

Unashamed, Cornwell wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and Afsaneh doesn’t wait for a response (which is good, because Michael doesn’t know what to say). She just opens the box.

_ “Identity confirmed: Paris, Afsaneh. Captain. Do you accept the last will and testament of Philippa Georgiou?” _

“Yes,” whispers Afsaneh.

Michael clenches her hands, nails into her palms, as the hologram Philippa Georgiou - real as Michael will ever see her again - appears. Bright and full of light. Her eyes glitter in a way that her Terran counterpart’s never did.

Michael remembers wondering if she would ever see that light - any light from this universe - ever again.

“ _ Afsaneh _ ,” Philippa says, with all of the warmth and love that Michael never heard her express to another person  _ quite this way _ .

Afsaneh breaks down, covering her face with her hands. “Pippa,” she whispers, with so much sorrow, and Michael’s hands are almost cramping because she’s squeezing them so hard.

“ _ Afsaneh,  _ jāné del-am _ , it is my hope that you never have to watch this message, _ ” Philippa says, and the spark of mischief in her eyes is unmistakable. “ _ I know that if you have to, it almost certainly means that you have been angry with me, and I couldn’t bear the thought. We all come to an end someday, yes?” _ Philippa’s face softens, and she smiles like a beach sunrise. “ _ But if you are watching this, I imagine you have forgiven me for not clinging to this fantastic existence for a little bit longer, and I thank you for that. _ ”

Afsaneh’s still sobbing, quietly now, shoulders shaking, but Michael knows better than to touch her now. Cornwell apparently knows this too, as the person she draws near to and loops her arm around isn’t Afsaneh - it’s Michael. Michael meets her eyes, which are asking her for permission. Michael grants it with a look of her own.

“ _ Jāné del-am _ ,” Kat whispers, so quietly that Michael can barely hear her.

“Life of my heart,” Michael murmurs, and Kat swallows a sharp intake of breath, holds her a little tighter. Michael can feel the wetness of Cornwell’s sleeve on her shoulder.

“ _ Afsaneh, I’m not sure what I can tell you that I haven’t told you before. You have my heart, my love, my faith. We speak so often about how we took up different paths - me, on a ship; you, on a station. We look up at the sky and see two completely different things, but we both chose it,  _ jāné del-am.  _ No one knows me better. And though I wish I were there to hold you, to tell you that I love you and see you in person once more, I want you to indulge me for a moment and recall a memory: both of us, too young to know any better, lying by the water. I told you something there. We don’t leave--” _

“--we return to the stars,” Afsaneh whispers with her.

Philippa smiles, rolls her eyes a little.  _ “The motivation behind it was silly at the time, but I still believe it now. It means something a little different, of course, but just remember that when you put the right star pieces together, you get me and my love for you. It is infinite, okay? So I’m leaving you the beach house - the token in here, when you activate it, will turn it over to you. Also, I know how you love sparkly things. We dressed pretty simply in my family growing up, but I think you’ll appreciate what you find in here. It was mine, my mother’s my grandmother’s...her sister’s...and so on.” _

Cornwell’s shaking with silent tears now too, and Michael, remembering standing up to this woman not a few days ago, reaches her own hand across to take the admiral’s wrist.

_ “So, there’s a bright side to this whole thing. And you’re not going to want to hear it, but that’s never stopped me before, and it’s not going to stop me now. If you are watching this, then it means that you live, Afsaneh.  _ So live. _ I’m not going to tell you to take care of anyone, because I know you’re going to do that whether I want you to or not; it’s who you are. I’m going to tell you to let other people take care of you. You’re so loved. I think I’ve spent the better part of a lifetime loving you, and I’m not so sure that death will stop that. But just in case--goodbye, Afsaneh. It is an honor and joy to be loved by you.” _

The room is horribly silent without Philippa’s voice, without her light.

Afsaneh places the small token in the box aside, then takes out the jewelry set - jewel-toned and plenty sparkly enough (Philippa was being modest). Swan-themed, by the looks of it. It means something to Afsaneh, though, who bursts into tears again - out loud, just for a moment - when she sees it.

When Afsaneh turns around, Cornwell takes her into her arms without question. They’re all so good at crying quietly.

And then Afsaneh pulls away and looks at Michael, who still, somehow, hasn’t figured out what to say.

“Michael,” she says quietly. “You’re the reason she didn’t go alone. Come here.”

Afsaneh’s hugged Michael a handful of times before. It doesn’t happen often - back then, Michael was still trying to figure out where her boundaries were among Humans. They didn’t feel like this. This feels like forgiveness, whether or not it’s coming from Afsaneh.

Michael’s arms are pinned to her sides - both of them are holding onto her now. “I’m sorry,” Michael says anyway.

“Shh,” Afsaneh tells her. “Too many apologies.”

Michael doesn’t know what she means by that, but then again, she’s never considered before that Cornwell felt like she had anything to apologize for.

It doesn’t matter now.

She has to shimmy a little, but she gets her arms out so that she can get her arms around the both of them too - a circle of three witnesses, leaning into forgiveness, saying goodbye.


End file.
